“At any rate, when we are ill you will not have so far to come and see us.”

“Yes, I understand.  That means that I am ungracious not to congratulate myself on having you all so much nearer to me; but I do not in the least.  I cannot bear to think of you as living anywhere but here at Allington.  Dales will be out of their place in a street at Guestwick.”

“That’s hard upon the Dales, too.”

“It is hard upon them.  It’s a sort of offshoot from that very tyrannical law of noblesse oblige.  I don’t think you ought to go away from Allington, unless the circumstances are very imperative.”

“But they are very imperative.”

“In that case, indeed!” And then again he fell into silence.

“Have you never seen that mamma is not happy here?” she said, after another pause.  “For myself, I never quite understood it all before as I do now; but now I see it.”

“And I have seen it;—­have seen at least what you mean.  She has led a life of restraint; but then, how frequently is such restraint the necessity of a life?  I hardly think that your mother would move on that account.”

“No.  It is on our account.  But this restraint, as you call it, makes us unhappy, and she is governed by seeing that.  My uncle is generous to her as regards money; but in other things,—­in matters of feeling,—­I think he has been ungenerous.”

“Bell,” said the doctor; and then he paused.

She looked up at him, but made no answer.  He had always called her by her Christian name, and they two had ever regarded each other as close friends.  At the present moment she had forgotten all else besides this, and yet she had infinite pleasure in sitting there and talking to him.

“I am going to ask you a question which perhaps I ought not to ask, only that I have known you so long that I almost feel that I am speaking to a sister.”

“You may ask me what you please,” said she.

“It is about your cousin Bernard.”

“About Bernard!” said Bell.

It was now dusk; and as they were sitting without other light than that of the fire, she knew that he could not discern the colour which covered her face as her cousin’s name was mentioned.  But, had the light of day pervaded the whole room, I doubt whether Crofts would have seen that blush, for he kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the fire.

“Yes, about Bernard.  I don’t know whether I ought to ask you.”

“I’m sure I can’t say,” said Bell; speaking words of the nature of which she was not conscious.

“There has been a rumour in Guestwick that he and you—­”

“It is untrue,” said Bell; “quite untrue.  If you hear it repeated, you should contradict it.  I wonder why people should say such things.”

“It would have been an excellent marriage;—­all your friends must have approved it.”

“What do you mean, Dr Crofts?  How I do hate those words, ’an excellent marriage’.  In them is contained more of wicked worldliness than any other words that one ever hears spoken.  You want me to marry my cousin simply because I should have a great house to live in, and a coach.  I know that you are my friend, but I hate such friendship as that.”